


Tea

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock surprises John: he has a particular way he wants tea to be made when a case is not on. This...this is John's telling of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea

Some people don't agree with Mondays or Wednesdays or even Fridays. For John Watson, life just didn't fall into such a rhythm. Others could plan their lives easily, knowing when they would have a day or two off, or when their weekend would begin and end. They usually knew when lunch was going to be and what their partner would be doing.

But for John Watson, life had no discernable rhythm. His job was only locum work—picking up a shift only when they needed him—and his past time was hunting down criminals at all hours since, after all, crimes didn't follow any clock. So he never had time to actively hate a Monday or a Tuesday, nor did he ever really know if he'd be having his tea at the same time every day.

That was just how his life went.

It is this for this reason that, on a particular Saturday, he was in the small kitchen he shared with Sherlock learning how to make tea _properly_.

In general, he knew that Saturdays were good days for other people; full of possibilities and chances and meetings. Dates and walks in the park. Some people worked Saturdays; but, still, Saturdays were full of hope. They were good things, a wonderful slice of life in which bad incidents generally did not happen.

When John had woken up that morning, he had only thought longingly of dozing in bed for the next hour or two. Maybe he'd have a full breakfast that morning since they'd finished a case only six hours ago, and there likely would not be anything to interrupt such a lovely breakfast. After breakfast, he could go for a walk or start on a new novel. Molly had recommended one just the other day. He could, in fact, enjoy this Saturday, as Saturdays are meant to be enjoyed.

He dozed, but no sooner had he done his ablutions than Sherlock was yelling for him.

"This had better not be a case, Sherlock!" he yelled back. "We've only just finished one, and I'm not sure I'm up for another just yet!"

"No, no, this is more important!" Sherlock yelled back.

"Not on fire again, are you?" John asked as he shuffled into the kitchen. "I doubt Mrs. Hudson will appreciate another stain." He stopped and rubbed his eyes. "I think it says a lot about my life when I find tea in the kitchen odder than a jar of eyeballs."

Sherlock frowned at him. "What does it say then?"

"That I live with a lunatic who thinks the kitchen—the flat in fact—is his own personal chemistry lab," John said.

Sherlock hummed.

"A lunatic? Hardly."

John sighed, put-upon, and studied the many containers of tea now sitting at their table. "Did someone put you onto re-enacting Alice in Wonderland? We could be having that mad tea party, for all the tea here."

"Alice in what?" Sherlock asked. He waved his hand. "Never mind that. Come here. It’s clear that no one ever taught you how to make tea, so the task falls to me."

"What? I know how to make tea—you've drunk tea I’ve made you plenty of times, and—"

"Everyday tea," said Sherlock, impatiently. "Tea that’s calming, simple, and enough to sooth the body. But proper tea, depending on the kind, takes time, a careful hand, and water at just the right temperature.”

"Just trying to process how you, as generally unfussed as you are, cares about tea done right. What does it matter to you? I doubt it'll ever solve a case, and isn't that all your brain keeps?"

Sherlock turned faintly pink.

"Well, it does keep the odd thing I may find useful in future.”

"And knowing how to make tea is useful?"

"And time consuming, hence why I don't bother unless I have time to devote to it."

"Ah. And I need to know this because…?"

"Because then you’ll know how to make tea, and I won't have to bother."

John bristled. "I am _not_ your housekeeper."

Sherlock stared at him. "I’m not sure I follow."

"I will not learn how to make tea just so you can order me to make it when you can’t be bothered!”

"Once you’ve tasted properly made tea, you’ll understand.”

"Shoul've stayed in bed," John muttered and sat down at the table. He knew when to fight and when not to. "Go on then, show me."

And Sherlock did. For three hours. He showed John how to tell when the water was the proper temperature, which leaves were best at which time of year, and which leaves were which, leaves required which temperature. It went on and on, and John was quite sure that even at the height of its cultural popularity, tea was not quite this appreciated.

Finally, Sherlock set a cup with a biscuit on the saucer in front of John.

"Go on, then."

John raised an eyebrow and reached for the sugar bowl—hoping it didn't contain anything poisonous.

Sherlock held it out of reach.

"Have a sip first, _then_ sweeten to taste."

John blinked and looked into the dark liquid.

"I hate plain tea. Never could stand it."

"Drink it, John."

John eyed the distance to the fridge, how far Sherlock was from it, and whether he could wrestle the sugar bowl from Sherlock. He sighed and braced himself for the bitter taste.

"Not bad," he said.

"Not bad?" Sherlock asked. "Not _bad_?”

John shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, it's better than any bagged stuff I’ve had, but I don't see why I should go through all that bother when I can just pick up some PG Tips or Tetley."

The sugar bowl fell to the floor with a crash, and Sherlock glared at him.

"I'm sorry," John said, but wasn't sure why he was apologizing.

"I should’ve known this was a useless endeavor," Sherlock sniffed. He stalked to the door, grabbed his coat, and moments later, the front door slammed.

John wondered why it was so important. He finished the cup of tea and poured another from the pot Sherlock had made. He knew, somehow, that other people didn't start their Saturdays this way. He also suspected that no one else was going to spend their Saturday cleaning up twenty different types of tea and other tea implements.

After breakfast though, he thought. It could wait.

~~~

A month later—a month filled tense silence and cold shoulders and wary looks from the officers at the Met—a box arrived for John. It was a Tuesday, but in general Tuesdays were quiet, so John didn't think twice about opening the box, knowing it would not be harmful, whatever it contained.

It was a box with a brand name he didn't recognize and a note:

 _Doctor Watson,_

 _It has come to my attention that my brother attempted to teach you the finer points of tea and how it is to be made, and that you failed to pass his test. Do not think badly on it; he does appreciate a good cup, but no one should have to make it according to his particular specifications. This brand of tea, while not the most expensive, should be within the budget and will appease Sherlock._

 _M.H._

John decided to hide it in his cabinet—he and Sherlock had worked it out that one of the kitchen cabinets at least would be for non-experiment and non-case related items. It was locked with a key that Mrs. Hudson kept safe from Sherlock, and John made sure even further that the tea was obscured in the back, to keep it secret from Sherlock until they didn't have a case.

This time, it wasn't a Saturday; it was a Thursday.

John woke up before Sherlock and decided it was time to test the tea.

"You said that this wasn't worth your time," Sherlock said as he cradled his cup.

John shrugged. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

Silence for a moment, and then—

"Thank you, John. I appreciate it."

John decided right then that he was going to get some more of Mycroft’s tea once they ran out. Lucky that Sherlock hated to do the shopping; John could continue to sneak it in, and no one would be the wiser.

Sherlock’s cold shoulder thawed, and life soldiered on.

Inasmuch as it could when posh tea in the kitchen was more peculiar than a jar of eyeballs.


End file.
